Page 32 of When He Saved Me
It seemed to me that most people preferred to talk out their thoughts and experiences with their friends, bouncing off ideas, seeking input and perspective, but I’d never been comfortable opening myself up that way. Writing words allowed me to make sense of my life. It’d been this way for as long as I could remember. Playing piano allowed me to express my emotions while writing allowed me to express my thoughts.
Around noon, I got up from my spot on the couch, stretching, my neck stiff from sitting hunched over the low table. I tip-toed down the hall, peering into Mrs. Felton’s room, where she still appeared to be fast asleep.
Knowing she needed to take her pills, I returned to the kitchen, where I heated up some soup. Placing a bowl, some crackers, and her pills on a tray, I made my way back to her room.
As I entered, her eyes fluttered open, her lips slowly curving in a smile. “Finn! I’m so glad you’re spending time with me today!”
Uncomfortable with her enthusiastic declaration, I simply nodded as I crossed over to her. She struggled to pull herself into a sitting position, so I quickly set the tray aside on the bedside table so I could assist her. She waved me away, saying, “I’m fine, kiddo. If you could just help me stand, I can make it to the bathroom, and then let’s take this food back out to the kitchen. I’d rather not eat like an invalid.”
“Are you sure?” The look she returned reminded me that up until this year, she’d been a teacher. There would be no arguing with her. “All right,” I mumbled as I took her cool hand in mine and helped her stand. I watched her make her way across the room to the bathroom, her leggings and T-shirt baggy on her thin frame. I made sure she looked steady on her feet before taking the tray back out to the kitchen, then returned to her room to guide her to the table. I knew she didn’t want my help, but Jamie would kill me if I let her fall.
We successfully made it to the kitchen, where she sat at one end of the table and invited me to sit next to her. I sat awkwardly while she scooped up some of the chicken noodle soup, blowing on the spoon to cool it a bit before taking a bite. “Where is yours?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure my sister made enough for a family of twenty. Go heat yourself up a bowl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said and got up to pull the large container of soup back out of the fridge. As I retrieved a bowl from the cabinet and began to ladle a portion for myself, she said, “Jamie says you work at a coffee shop by the university. Are you in school then?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not in school.” I always got a mixture of responses when I told people I wasn’t in school. They ranged from judgment to pity mixed with the occasional patronizing “You’ll figure it out.” Most people didn’t ask why. They were generally too busy making assumptions regarding my motivations and telling me what Ishouldbe doing without knowing anything about my background or life story. The thing was, I hadwantedto go to school. But that option had been taken from me.
When she didn’t respond, I chanced a glance at her. I sensed no judgment or pity, just open curiosity. Surprising myself, I felt compelled to elaborate. “I came out to my parents the day after graduation. They kicked me out of their house and cut me off from the trust fund that was supposed to pay my way.”
The microwave chimed, and I took my soup over to the table to sit next to her. My pulse was racing. I hated talking about my personal life, but somehow these Feltons had a way of pulling it out of me. I didn’t look at her. She hadn’t been judgmental so far, but I was afraid I’d see pity. “Did you apply for loans?”
“All the deadlines had passed, and my parents are in a pretty high tax bracket, so I really couldn’t qualify for anything anyway.” I blew gently on my soup spoon before taking a bite. “Besides, I was more concerned with where I was going to live and how I would support myself at that point.”
“How’d you survive?”
“My friend, Carmen. Her parents took me in over the summer until I could save enough for a small apartment. I’ve been working at The Daily Grind and playing gigs at Ivory ever since.”
“Jamie says you play piano?”
“Yeah. It was maybe the one thing my parents did for me that I can be grateful for. I mean, they got me piano lessons so I could be more well-rounded, which made them look better to their society friends. I don’t think they counted on it being something I would be so good at. And, as it turns out, not only has it helped me make money, it’s been one of the few things that was solely mine. They could kick me out, but they couldn’t take that away.”
We were quiet as we continued to eat our soup. Dropping stories of your sad childhood was a real conversation killer. I couldn’t believe I’d just poured all that out to her. I hadn’t even told Jamie about a lot of it. Finishing my soup, I set my spoon down, but before I could reach for my water glass, I felt her hand on my arm.
“Our job as parents is to love our kiddos, no matter who they grow up to become. Apparently, your parents didn’t get that memo.” She squeezed my arm. “I’m proud of you.”
“Proud?”
“Of your strength. Your resiliency. You’ve survived in spite of them.”
I shook my head. “I just did what I had to do.”
“Maybe. But I’ve taught a lot of affluent children over the years. They have every advantage in the world, earn top grades, get accepted to elite schools, yet most wouldn’t have the first clue how to make it out there in the real world.”
She wasn’t wrong, and while I was incredibly uncomfortable with her praise, a part of me was hungry for more. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had told me they were proud of me. “Um, thank you,” I said, rising to collect our bowls and move them to the sink. As I finished loading the dishwasher, she asked, “Would you play for me?”
“The piano?”
“Yes. I have such happy memories of Jamie’s father playing Christmas carols at this time of year. It’s been years since anyone’s played for me.”
Unable to deny anything she asked of me, I escorted her to the living room, making sure she was comfortable with a blanket across her lap. The piano was surprisingly in tune despite having sat virtually unused for years. I took requests for about thirty minutes until I noticed her eyes had closed. I pulled the blanket over her shoulders, then quietly retrieved my notebook and sat on the other end of the couch where I would be nearby if she needed anything.
As I watched her sleep, my notebook closed in my lap, I thought of the vast differences between Mrs. Felton and my mother. They couldn’t be any more dissimilar. Jamie and I had grown up in wealthy households, but as far as I could tell, that was the only similarity.
This house had a warmth I hadn’t experienced in my own home. It was tidy but lived in. Blankets were loosely folded and tossed over the backs of chairs and couches. Pictures and knick-knacks were mixed among books, some clearly well-worn, crowding shelves. Mismatched candles sat on the mantle at various heights, their black wicks showing evidence that they’d been lit at some point.
